


The Slip-Slide Path

by Anonymous



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Animal Death, F/F, F/M, Flare Scientist Sycamore, Genocide, M/M, Multi, Nuzlocke Challenge compatible violence, Perfectworldshipping Secret Santa 2013, Team Flare AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the watershed moment, there was a time when they were both a little more optimistic about the chances the world had. Maybe things could still be saved? It had always been a possibility, after all. If someone out there was clever enough, and powerful enough to put that cleverness into action.</p>
<p>	And they were both very clever young men. Nothing to be scoffed at, but not yet with the sort of weight behind their names that they would need if they were going to single handedly save humankind from self destruction. </p>
<p>	They never meant to lose track of themselves, but isn't that the way these things always go?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling downhill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StoriesFromDust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesFromDust/gifts).



Before the watershed moment, there was a time when they were both a little more optimistic about the chances the world had. Maybe things could still be saved? It had always been a possibility, after all. If someone out there was clever enough, and powerful enough to put that cleverness into action.

And they were both very clever young men. Nothing to be scoffed at, but not yet with the sort of weight behind their names that they would need if they were going to single handedly save humankind from self destruction.

They never meant to lose track of themselves, but isn't that the way these things always go?

* * *

 

“Then what about technological progress? We're doing more with less every day!”

That, at least, earned a stiff echo of a smile form his dour classmate, beneath the usual eyerolling and dull denial.

“And every day, we discover some new drawback to creations we were told are safe.” Lysandre shook his head, and Augustine made every effort not to be distracted by the play of light turning strands and slivers from red to gold. He was going to come out of this one victorious; he could not continue to be run over by a boy three years his junior, regardless of how clever or pretty or disproportionately tall and broad in the shoulders for a nineteen year old.

This was becoming a pattern, and just the once he wanted to speak his way out form underneath those condescending eyes. Being able to talk himself out of trouble, being able to put together ideas in ways that no one expected: those were his best traits. Aside from his legs of course. But legs did not win arguments, and were only half the ticket into a stranger's bed for the evening.

If he couldn't even manage to out think a sophomore, only three terms out of the basic education racket, for all that he was taking a high level course in environmental impact studies, then how in Uxie's name was he meant to survive his graduate studies in Sinnoh? Outside the safely controlled atmosphere of the lecture halls, doing real work and helping with genuine discoveries? He was going to be eaten alive, and he had better things to do with his life than that, thank you.

Unfortunately, this was how it always went. Ever since the first time, when Augustine had winked and invited the youngest member of his final Thursday class to a light afternoon snack and a bit of indulgent conversation, as he had been doing for three weeks by then, and finally been accepted. They would find a new café, and a new pastry, and the same drinks all made subtly differently. They would sit as near the door as possible, and they would have these pointless debates that served no purpose whatsoever. The topic du jour was whatever that week's lecture had covered, at least initially, though it always spiraled wildly out of control. Conversations involving Augustine usually did. That, at least, went as expected.

But Lysandre never so much as stumbled over a single sentence, following the slip-slide paths of Augustine's interjections with an ease and grace that was practically unheard of in men twice his age, and was therefore _completely_ inappropriate in a _boy_.

And eventually, with hours of pointless but delightful bickering behind them, they always ended up back here. Augustine's hair beginning to frizz at the ends from his increasingly emphatic gestures, and a minute, self satisfied smirk on Lysandre's lips. Check and mate, as it were. They both knew the next words out of the upperclassman's mouth would be the effective admission of defeat. It was just a matter of waiting to see what form they would take. At this point, Augustine had entirely given up monitoring what he was saying at all.

“Well _fine_ , if the issue is too many people and too few resources, then why not just go all out and wipe out half the population! Just keep on condensing into urban environments until density ends in a viral epidemic! Let the entire mess sort itself out!”

And here it was, the final parry before they gave up this ill fated attempt at a debate club for the evening. Lysandre's endlessly smooth unraveling of the entire proposition, which was, of course, the shabbiest of the day. The last one always was.

“Doubling available resources per person would hardly be sufficient. It completely ignores the underlying disparities and scarcities. To say nothing of how quickly a population can be restored with concerted effort. It wouldn't be more than three generations before we ended up right back where we are now. Not nearly long enough for an ecosystem to heal. No, that's not a solution at all, my friend. Not in the least.” 

* * *

 

Sinnoh was not an especially difficult region for foreign visitors. More metropolitan then Johto, less overwhelming than Unova. But for someone as in love with the idea of home as Augustine, to say nothing of being in love with Kalos on its own merits, it was still confusing. Acclimating was a challenge. He had thrown himself into his research with an obsessive vigor for lack of anything else comfortably familiar to cling to.

There were, of course, certain human comforts that could be found no matter where he went. And there was a particular charm that being obviously foreign in such a well traveled place offered. To say nothing of features that he knew from long experience to be catching, even when height and pallor and reedy limbs were practically expected in large swathes of the population. In Kalos, his hundred and eighty three centimeters has been tall, but not overwhelmingly impressive. Particularly not since little sophomore boys that he was resolutely not thinking about were capable of besting him on that measure. But when the average height was only one hundred sixty five, he suddenly became a towering giant.

It might have been a detriment, if he didn't know precisely how to arrange himself to look artful and ethereal. If he hadn't been doing it, little by little, since he had first received Lamium at twelve, in conscious and subconscious contrast to her ever present, exceptionally round body.

It was six day after landing at the international airdocks that he managed to seduce his first coworker, though at least he'd managed to rebuff her gently and promised to start behaving himself around the rest of Rowan's team. It had been laughed off as the unfortunate habits of a young playboy, and two days later when he was bustling a delightfully elfin young woman whose name escaped him entirely out of his lodgings in the early morning hours, that seemed likely enough to be the case.

He liked women. He liked sex. He liked being around people, laughing with them, knowing them. The intimacy of mind that came during his long, laborious days of study and research with what he was rapidly beginning to think of as his team. The shorter and more deliriously physical intimacy of nights with whichever lady caught his attention and offered her own. It helped him to feel grounded. It helped him to find what he wanted to be, and refine it, until he could step into an identity that felt almost like it belonged to an adult. Albeit a very particular, giggling type of adult. One who reacted to the remembrance of a physical, romantic culture in his bones and the contrasting, formal culture all around him by becoming a very careful caricature of his home. The essential Kalosian. Right down to his casual disregard for consequence when possessed of a passion.

Why should he worry, when he knew that he was doing great things with his time. When he could feel his thoughts fractalling into wider nets under the guidance of more experienced minds.

Why should he let himself dwell on the slanted, dreamwashed image of disapproving eyes, too old for the soft, boyish face that surrounded them, and actually consider the impact of his actions on his reputation, on his beloveds of the nights' hearts and minds.

There was no need to worry about those things.

Just focus on the work, and the emotions, and let the rest of everything sort itself out. It would. Eventually.

Sinnoh was not a very difficult place for a foreign national. But it was a different sort of place. A place where everything felt distantly of the dreams of fay gods born from the same egg, occupying the same mind and constantly overwashing eachother. Nothing was ever entirely real. But eventually the mask because a mold, and he became something other than he had been when he'd left.

* * *

 

Returning home after six years should have proven more difficult than it did. Things changed quickly, then as now. In the time it took for Augustine to abandon all he had ever known, and to come back triumphant, doctorate in hand and with an entirely novel branch of study to dive into, it seemed like Lumiose should have been different from what he had left behind. Or at least his perception of it should have been changed.

Certainly the city was larger, brighter and more crowded than it had been. But it was already bright, and crowded, and large. It was the City of Lights, after all. If there were any changes at all, it was that Lumiose had become even more of itself. The sweet and the foul alike.

But it was easy enough to hide away from the foul, to hold on to his research and his title. To only come up for air when his body demanded rest, or food, or company. To charm and flirt in the ways he had perfected for seducing far more reticent Sinnoans, a perfect blend of self deprecation and genuine, if general, compliments that slid around his partners easily, and required no great thought, no real intimacy. That was reserved singularly for his work.

Everything, at long last, was settling into place. No more adolescent shifts of current and identity. His personality no longer felt like a game of maturity he was playing. All was well. Even Lamium seemed inclined to agree, having evolved into a Garchomp on their first day back on familiar soil that sang of _home_ and _here._

Admittedly, he did realize that was a ridiculous notion and that Lamium would probably have evolved on or around that day regardless of other factors, because they certainly hadn't done anything spectacular. But that wasn't the point. The point was they were home, and there was a convenient symbolic memory marking their return as the right choice.

They had been too busy with the move to celebrate her final evolution for the first month, long enough that Sycamore no longer moved to pat a Gabite's head and swatted accidentally at a Garchomp's shoulder. But eventually there was a lull in the storm, with no women of the night and no welcome back parties with old friends and new peers, and not even any boxes left to unpack.

So it was that the professor and his dragon began picking through Lumiose aimlessly after dark, looking for something suitable to mark the occasion in both their minds. No matter how often the intelligence of a pokémon was correlated to its bond with a trainer, or how much of it was blamed on psychic transference, everyone knew they were perfectly capable of having opinions and forming grudges, after all.

The plaza jeune was their eventual destination, having been swallowed up by a concert of some kind, though since it was apparently acoustic, he heard nothing of the artists themselves. But the music was less important than the people, and they were packed in with an impressive density. Talking over each other, gaggles of young friends in tight packs, happy couples leaning and leering and in a few cases racing fervently towards indecency charges. And throughout it all, the suffused hum of more conversations than anyone could hope to track. A party large enough for an entire city, with the raucous presumption of intimacy and informality that he had grown exhausted living without. Sinnoh was beautiful, but Kalos was _alive_.

At no point, however, had he expected to meet anyone in the plaza. Not in either sense of the phrase. Lumiose was huge, and while it was entirely plausible that some familiar faces might be in the plaza, it was less likely that they'd run into each other. And this night was reserved especially for the one woman in his life who was unlikely to be removed from his home any time soon. Lamium, however, had sauntered off with her very alarming grin to socialize- or possibly harass- a trio of unfamiliar Skiddo and their Furfrou keeper.

He was grinning at the unfolding scene, huffing at the way the Furfrou's hackles had risen even as the Skiddo started trying to climb all over her, when an utterly unfamiliar voice called his name. “Augustine? Augustine Sycamore?”

“Absolutment,” He replied, flourishing his hand as he turned to look at the enquirer. “I'm sorry, have we met?”

Later, he might blame a variety of factors for being slow on the connection. The interim time, the way his old friend had filled out, growing even taller and broader, the way the beard and hair and suit all disguised what had once been familiar lines, all layered with a voice that had almost certainly seen the wrong side of several years of cigarettes. But there would always be the tiniest murmur of dissent that informs him that he recognized, even before he knew. A stutter in his chest that had no effect on anything else, but was nonetheless undeniable.

“Lysandre Fleur-de-Lis. Forgive me, I should have realized you might not recall me. Our last interaction was many years ago.”

Augustine blinked up at the man, which was unusual in itself, and made to feel all the moreso by having not conversed with anyone taller than him in nearly seven years, and the pieces fell into place.

“ _Mon dieu_ , I can't decide if your evolution or Lamium's is more impressive! Did you _ever_ stop growing?”

“Several years ago, at my last check, yes. The better question might be whether you've eaten since then.”

And it shouldn't be this easy, because they had been friends before, but not fast or close. That was a single semester years ago, and it should not have been so simple to reach out and place a firm hand on Lysandre's shoulder and shake his head. To cock his chin to the side and grin, and say, “That much fish does strange things to a man's figure, Lys, but at least I can wear stylish trousers!”

To laugh and joke and pull out the emotional cues. Lysandre had always been so closed off, then. But he was no different than anyone Augustine had met in Sinnoh. Reserved, but not truly obscure. Expressing himself in a subtler way that had driven a younger Augustine to madness trying to pry his way beneath that image of apathy for minutes at a time. It was not apathetic at _all_.

Lamium was off gallivanting with an Altaria and Shellgon, apparently unconcerned by her trainer's interest in human socialization given the circumstances, and they were left to become just one of the many, many islands of personal connection in the great sea of Lumiose, laughing and touching and being. And it was all together the easiest thing Augustine had done since the day he'd started carrying Lamium's pokéball. It was natural as breathing, and as dizzy as the thin, thin air atop Mount Coronet.

* * *

 

Being a master of lectures was not, ultimately, to Augustine's liking. Not after all the time he'd spent actively poking and prodding and learning his field directly. Now, he had to be a creature of schedules and deadlines, he had to judge and grade, and though the speaking was never truly an issue, the teaching was far more challenging. It felt like the most alarming brand of stagnation.

He was aware, of course, that if he could simply achieve full professor status, then things would be different. He would be at the head of his own team, he would have more time to look in to the complexities of Kalosian evolutions- ones not found anywhere else in the world- and their origins. He would have freedom and control and no small amount of power.

But the wait, _the wait_.

Every day at the chirp of his tinny alarm, he wished he had chosen a research associate position. Though the upward mobility was almost nonexistant, at least he would be happy. At least he would be living his own life.

Lamium rarely slept in her pokéball anymore, and though she was far too big for it, she was constantly curled against his side on the bed by morning, rough skin scratching harsh rashes on his own until he took up wearing flannel pajamas instead.

She could not speak, but the message was clear. She was lonely without him, and she could feel his distress so keenly. But she was only a pokémon and had no advice to offer him, so she did what she could.

And on dark, empty nights, listening to the high sighs of her breath, he considered and reconsidered, twitching through the angles until he could feel his life beginning to slide apart.

There was, after all, an alternative.

* * *

 

“I know it's your company and all, but don't you think this whole dress code is a little bit absurd?”

“I didn't used to, but you really do look atrocious in that much red. We'll think of something.”

* * *

 

Ultimately, he ended up with a research team of his own years faster than he would have gotten one through the university. He was only thirty two and in complete executive control of the project of a lifetime. And he could feel the precipice buzzing beneath his fingers every time he curled them around the bar of the lab doors, pristine black coat swaying dramatically around his ankles, with its piped red accents used sparingly, where they can never glow in unhealthy contrast to his pale skin. The belt still drove him mad, with its absurd buckle, of course. But, when you've been given your life's ambition on a silver platter, that isn't even a price. Just a minute, pointless detail.

* * *

 

Out of them all, his favorite was Aliana. So much so that he never even considered sleeping with her, although he breezed through the other women quickly. He had the sneaking suspicion that they were using him in much the same way.

Well. With Bryony and Celosia, it was less a suspicion and more a loudly acknowledged confirmation that he was the best man available for the job, and that it was definitely _only_ a job. But Mable was quieter, and more vicious, and the morning after didn't in any way alter their working relationship.

And when their research was pockmarked with failures, these assorted mornings after, waking up crushed into the same bed with one, or two, or three technicolored women became more and more common. Sometimes, while listening to Mable breathe almost silently, still as a corpse, or watching Celosia cling closer to Bryony and mutter nonsense into her shoulder, he considered the team he had worked with in Sinnoh. He had only left them two years ago. It felt like an eternity. He remembered the conviction of his belief that intellectual intimacy with fellow academics and physical intimacy with almost anonymous women were the only things he required to be happy.

That the only reason he'd sometimes strayed back to consciousness in the middle of the night thinking of gawky redheads and their quicksilver tongues was that those memories represented home and comfort.

And with his team piled around him, breathing slow and unconscious, or in an empty bedroom with only the stinging silence of the concrete walls, he kept thinking his way back there. He hadn't been wrong, exactly. Lysandre had certainly represented _something_.

The next time Bryony hauled a weepy looking Celosia to his quarters with no explanation and shoved her into his arms, he managed, with some confusion, to address the issue without actually fucking her, and it felt like a victory, for reasons he couldn't fathom.


	2. At a fair clip

 Every Wednesday, he takes lunch in the café with Lysandre, and they discuss pointless, mundane things because they have all the time in the world to talk about actual work in the labs. And Sycamore smiles manically through every one of those meals. Half of him is giddy with the secrecy and the knowledge that so many people are so constantly looking, _looking_ for Lys's laboratories, and no one ever seems to make the connection. He enjoys knowing this thing that no one else does, even as they eat and drink in what amounts to the foyer.

But that doesn't explain it all, and he isn't entirely sure what the rest is. Just that it is Lysandre's doing.

He is thirty four years old, and he has never been in love for all that he has been a grand and storied lover. So when he cannot stop the compliments about his friend, his companion, his partner, his _boss_ , from spilling out of him, he doesn't know what it means, exactly. He laughs about shared passions, and oohs at the beginnings of future plans offered like morsels to him before even Xerosic, his nominal superior. He touches fondly, briefly. He lingers too close by, and stares for too long afterwards, and he is a smart, smart man. But he is also phenomenally stupid.

Fortunately, Aliana has come to enjoy his company nearly as much as he enjoys hers, and she is the one who finally cues him to his own behaviour.

“So when are you and the boss going to make it public?”

“I don't really know? Some time in the next month or so. The Holo Caster is really more of Bryony and Celosia's work. You know that.”

“Oh come on, Gus, I'm not _simple_. How long until you and Lysandre stop pretending you aren't dating.”

“We're _not_!?”

The way Aliana stares at him, disbelief slowly cracking into hysterical amusement at his expense, is more than enough to make things clear. Things that hadn't even seemed opaque to begin with. And once he's _aware_ of the fact, everything changes. The entire world seems to lilt dangerously beneath his feet, and he is, for a moment, for an instant, a child again. 

Of course, the disorientation passes, as it always does, and in its wake, there is a novel sense that he is being called to a mission of some value. It buzzes through him in much the same way the door to his labs did every morning. Purpose and a goal.

He arranges to travel to Shalour the next week.

* * *

 

They are not battlers, he and Lamium. They have not been in _years_. Not since she was a Gible and they had squandered three years of their lives playing at the league and being thrown back at every turn. Eventually, she had been hospitalized for two weeks after another ill fated attempt at challenging the Laverre gym. At the time, there had been no way for a confused thirteen year old to understand why his Gible had been condemned to such an unfortunate fate at the claws of pokémon that should have been significantly weaker. It wasn't on the books. They had quit, after that, and instead set about rewriting those same books.

But now Augustine is not a child, and Lamium is not a Gible, and between them both they know more than is strictly fair to be taking to a fight with a girl who laughs in their face, and tells him that his two badges from decades ago don't exactly qualify him in her eyes.

He smiles and chats amiably, and she lets it be known that it’s her grandfather he actually needs to win over. And if anything, it is simpler to talk his way into the graces of a retired academic than an obnoxious teenager. It still takes weeks. 

And then there they are, atop the absurd tower. The impossible tower, far too tall for the materials of its construction, far too steady for its age. Something reeking with the peculiar power that Sycamore has been researching for so long and not nearly long enough.

Korrina giggles at this foolish old man challenging her, and waves her first Lucario forward. 

There is a heart stopping moment, when the light show begins, when he thinks perhaps he has made a mistake. But they have a plan, one that had required borrowing technical machines from Lysandre's library, one that had required no small amount of secrecy and trickery to arrange. And this was just one little step. He tries to appreciate this first exposure to a Mega Evolution, which he has waited a lifetime for.

“Up!” Sycamore calls even as Korrina calls for the trademark move of her competitive battles outside the league: power-up punch. He doesn't laugh at her confusion, though it is tempting, as Lamium charges into the air, the whistling roar of her jetsream causing everything not pinned down to go fluttering wildly away from her launch point. It's hardly the girl's fault, it isn't as if fully evolved members of the Gible line are a dime a dozen, and it's a stupidly common misconception. After all, Garchomp do not have wings, and they cannot maintain long term flight, but those jets and sails are far from decorative. 

It's like cheating, really. Korrina is a specialized trainer. Her day in and day out is a matter of brute power and close combat. Her momentary hesitation, the span of time it takes for her to change gears and try to conjure up a strategy suitable to an airborne, long range opponent, he's already found his opening. Lamium is a Dragon type, and he knows that dragon pulse exists somewhere in the possible movepool for a Lucario. The faster the better.

“Flamethrower.” He barely even raises his voice, and Lamium probably shouldn't be able to hear him at this distance, but the belch of orange-yellow plasma and air is already dripping out of her mouth before he's even closed his. When the destruction clears, Korrina is nearly crying, and looks every part the young girl that she actually is. Only nineteen or so, perhaps less. Her lead lucario is lying on the ground, the metal studs marking its chest and paws are deformed slag, and everything stinks of brunt meat. He thinks distantly that he will probably become a vegetarian.

Lamium's glide finally comes to an end, and she settles easily by his side. Korrina is a wreck, and her other lucario are staring blankly between their trainer and their dead packmate. It would probably be for the best if he didn't put Lamium back in her ball just yet. Just in case something went wrong.

But the young gym leader, rather than reaching out for the steaming body and its glowing mess of metal, just reaches beneath her skirt, flipping it up to fish into a bag on her belt, and throw a small, black ring at Sycamore dully. A stone distantly resembling an opal and a soap bubble gleams in its setting.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he informs her, stooping to collect the ring. But he isn't as sorry as he should be. He can tell that much without even thinking about it. When she just sniffles and mutters something about going away, it is all too easy to oblige. Lamium kneels to offer him her back, even though they have never ridden like this before. Fortunately, she doesn't need her jets, when the balcony of the tower is so high, and their long glide takes them half the distance to Couriway, and they should be back in Lumiose in less than two days.

Just in time for lunch, with any luck.

* * *

 

This time, when he meets Lysandre at the café he knows the precise nature and measure of his smile, of the airy lift in his steps. He has never afforded himself anxiety in matters of the heart before, and he is hardly about to begin now.

“I realize these rendezvous are the highlight of your social life,” Lysandre informs him as they look over their empty plates and cups. His smile is far more understated. “But you look as if you've been stealing drugs from the children out in train station.” 

The café has begun to empty out, but there are still a few customers in the corner booth, clearly settled down for the long haul, which means that Augustine cannot return to his work unless he wants to go around the long way. He definitively does not.

“You are insufferably vain!” He says instead, voice bubbling with laughter that isn't quite spilling over, though not for lack of trying. “You are unreasonable and stubborn and too clever for your own good, and you pretend to be this reserved gentleman, but I know the truth, Lys.” The accusation is free of any malice, it all comes out in the same tone his endless reams of compliments ever have. “You've led me down some sort of mad rabbit hole, look at me, I look like a storybook villain. The classic maniacal professor!”

Lysandre's amused confusion has begun by now to slip into discontent, shot through with worry, and Augustine really does laugh then. He stands up sharply, possessed of a sudden urge to return to the labs immediately, though not for work. He nudges his wiry chair back under the table, and offers Lysandre a hand that the larger man does not need in standing. And then, rather than letting go, he is dragging Lysandre out the front door, and around the plaza, down the requisite back alley, still chuckling. Lysandre only asks twice what the _hell_ is going on, and the uncharacteristic cursing only leaves Augustine laughing harder.

He turns his key in the lock of the back entrance, which opens onto a nondescript hallway which, itself, leads to the real door to the lab. But he doesn't bother going that far, this is good enough.

It's ridiculous. It's an absolute delight, really. Lysandre towers over him in height, in width, in strength. But he is anxious and confused and wary, and when Augustine reaches past him to shut the door, and then fails to get out of the way, Lysandre _lets_ himself be crowded. There's not two ways about it, really. It's an unequivocal handover of power, and Augustine wonders how long it has been going on. No wonder Aliana was so sure they were fucking.

He forces himself to take three long, slow breathes, fighting back at the giddiness. Then, and only then, does he reach into the zippered pocket inside his labcoat, and produce the ring, holding it between two fingers cockily.

“I may have picked up a souvenir when I was in Shalour.”

Watching his face is beautiful, bordering on majestic. The way the anxiety leaks out first, so that the confusion can wash in like stars slowly fading out in the approach of sunrise. And then dawn comes in a rush of comprehension, followed by perhaps the truest smile Augustine has ever seen on his face, perfectly white teeth on full display. And here is the opportunity he has been planning for nearly a month, and been waiting over a decade for.

Augustine surges forward, rolling onto his toes easily, and curls his fingers into Lysandre's absurd mane, vaguely aware that the ring is catching and it is probably hurting him. Which is fine, because the problem will be neatly solved when he hauls Lysandre's mouth down to his.

It is an absolutely horrible kiss, mashing two tight smiles together, Augustine still laughing and Lysandre gone still with shock, his grin no doubt stiff and frozen. But Augustine can't bring himself to care, pulling their mouths apart and knocking his forehead lightly against Lysandre's. He can feel himself about to ask something, though he can't imagine what, as whatever part of him monitors his own speech has turned off. But then Lysandre is moving again, arms curling around Augustine's waist to pull him in closer, and try again.

The second time is better, with limber lips that Augustine can work to his advantage, pulling the lower between his teeth with gentle suction. It's a familiar dance, even if the beard is new. So, for that matter, is the low rumble curling in Lysandre's chest, deep and dark and nothing at all like girlish sighs and breathless moans. Actually, it really isn't the same at all, but it's close enough that he knows what to do.

The rest, they can figure out in their own time.

* * *

 

The Holo Caster is an enormous success.

Lysandre's corporate interests spread far and wide with the sharp jump in income and prestige.

Things begin falling smoothly into place.

* * *

 

No matter how they try, no matter what the circumstances are, it seems that Lamium is incapable of mega evolution. Even though they have a stone that reacts vividly to her biology. Even though they have the ring. Sycamore has begun to suspect that perhaps Gurkinn's comments about the bond between trainer and pokémon were not entirely unfounded. It would hardly be the first time. After all, everyone and their grandchild knew about the curious matters of Umbreon and Espeon, and now Sylveon.

Fortunately, they are not without options, and ultimately it is Celosia and her Manectric that have the sensitivity needed to trigger the transformation, consistently, time and time again. Given the number of times the youngest of their scientific cohort had bawled out her self loathing and anxiety in Augustine's quarters while her girlfriend looked on with apathy to mask pain and confusion, he is glad for her. She deserves to be able to think highly of herself.

* * *

 

It turns out to be a lucky break that their only consistently mega evolving pokémon is Electric, and for that matter, has such a strong charge naturally, compared to some of the others. It takes a long, long time to convince Celosia that this is necessary, that they can't just siphon the electricity from the rest of the Lumiose grid. They'll be caught, and then what. There's only so much that Lysandre's prestige in the community can do for them if that happens.

Bryony stays with her, for comfort. Xerosic stays with the equipment. The rest of the team heads for Geosenge.

* * *

 

The flower is breathtaking. Augustine is so glad he has the opportunity to see it, Lysandre's hand in his own. It is beautiful in ways that shouldn't even be _possible_. It shines with all the unknowable power of half forgotten gods, radiant and flawless.

* * *

 

They do not press the button, ultimately. Celosia, Bryony and Xerosic arrive a day and a half later, and the women are in absolute disarray. Celosia looks as if she may never stop being ill.

Augustine does not think himself a cruel man, and he convinces Lysandre to let her have the final honor. Let her make the grand gesture, since hers was the first pokémon lost to the venture. And, perhaps, the most gruesomely, as well. Burnt out from his own bones. Doesn't she deserve the cold comfort of an empty motion?

* * *

 

The sky is blue. The clouds are white. Lamium is dead, and that pains him deeply. He can see the weight of grief in Lysandre's shoulders too, as one by one he releases his nonresponsive team from their balls, leaves them there in what will be their crypt beneath the flower.

Out in the world, there are still thousands of people. Anyone across the globe who was able to make the requisite contribution, and their one chosen guest. There are entire families left unaffected.

The population of Kalos is now the highest in the world, at a lofty seven and a half thousand. Other regions, poorer regions, are empty now. Void of human or pokémon life. They will be reclaimed by nature. Civilization will carry on as it always has, knitting itself back together. But now, humanity will have a continuity, a future, unfurling into new millenia, rather than choking on their own greed.

Augustine studies the sky, curls his arm around Lysandre's waist to remind him of the moment and the life they still have.

And in that moment, all the lingering doubts have disappeared beneath the bright, constant light of the sun. 

They have saved the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with illustrations by [[EverythingFromDust](http://everythingfromdust.tumblr.com/post/77872744877/ok-so-sometimes-a-picture-gets-away-from-me-this)]
> 
> Alphaed/grammar checked by [[HiHungryMyNamesDad](http://hihungrymynamesdad.tumblr.com/)]  
> Betaed/flow checked by [[ArionWind](http://arionwind.tumblr.com/)]


End file.
